Les Amis
by ChildrenoftheBarricade
Summary: My attempt to write every pairing possible within the Amis. Chapter 2: Trouble. Bahorel fell in love with him slowly. But a happy ending was never guaranteed, not when they were both deeply involved in criminal gangs. Bahorel/Feuilly.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Set myself a little challenge to write every pairing within the Amis, as well as E/C/C and J/B/M. I have a numbered list, and courtesy of a random number generator, my first pairing is Bossuet/Jehan. Please note, there is no link between any of these. A character could be a complete ass in one story and an utter sweetheart in the next. There summary will change for each fic, and there'll be individual warnings for each fic. No explicit content, but may include things like swearing, possible genderbending, etc.**

**P.S: This one contains swearing.**

Bossuet had been cursed all his life, really, or so it seemed. He'd been raised by fairly wealthy parents, but there'd been falls from trees, tumbles down the stairs, things like that. This morning, he'd managed to lose his wallet, including the rent he'd been saving all month. Joly would be furious. Three months in a row, he'd had to bail Bossuet out, and was starting to lose patience with his calamities.

Trying to postpone the fury - Joly was meek, most of the time, but when he got angry, it was scary - Bossuet wandered around the Luxembourg Gardens. Enjolras and Combeferre would be occupying the Café Musain, and he was in no mood for politics. Bahorel would be at the Corinthe, take him out, only for him to be unable to pay his bill. No, a nice walk in the park would do him good.

He sat on a bench, basking in the summer sun, half-asleep. After an hour or so, a beautiful, melodic voice stirred him, singing some popular song that had been floating around the city. Bossuet had hated it, used to hearing it in grating, drunken voices, but it sounded like an angelic chorus. He opened his eyes to see a young man sat a little way from him, under a tree. His clothes were mismatched and poorly sized, but hardly a pauper's clothes, made of expensive fabrics. He was likely a poet, then, a little vague and dreamy when it came to life, fashion included, though most poets were impoverished. He must be some eccentric aristocratic child, still young enough that his parents funded his oddities.

That didn't matter, though. He studied the boy's face - he was just a boy, no older than sixteen. He was a lovely young creature, with wide, almost amber eyes and mousy brown hair falling into his face. He flipped his hair back every so often to study something he was holding. After a few moments - well, alright, not until he started playing it - Bossuet realised it was a flute.

When the boy got up to leave, Bossuet followed, with the intention of introducing himself. The boy was swift, and Bossuet wondered if he was cursed to let the boy slip through his fingers.

He knew it was unusual to be interested in men. Joly had been curious, wondering if there was a medical explanation for such a thing. Combeferre dismissed it - he recognised a similar quality in Grantaire, and knew that was the only quality Bossuet shared with the drunk. It was painfully unlikely that the amber-eyed boy would be interested, but it would be pleasurable enough to spend a little time in his company.

They were back in the depths of the city, Bossuet always a few paces behind, the boy just out of reach for a tap on the shoulder. He stopped at a stand outside a greengrocer's, and Bossuet thanked Fortuna. Just once, things might work out. He took a moment to catch his breath - by God, he was becoming unfit - and admired the boy, deliberating between apples and grapes. He had his flute tucked under his arm, a beautifully carved and no doubt expensive piece of work, as he took a handful of coppers from his pocket.

And then it all went wrong. It was bound to, Bossuet realised. He reached out to tap the boy on the shoulder, just as a thief grabbed the flute and ran. The boy gave a cry of dismay, tripping over his too long trouser legs as he turned after the thief. He sat on the street, tears brimming in his beautiful eyes, a drop of blood on his lip where he'd bitten it as he fell. WIthout another thought, Bossuet gave chase.

What was he thinking? These theives were fast. It was the only way they could get away with this. But if he wanted any chance of speaking to the amber-eyed boy, he had to keep running. Maybe it wouldn't bring back his lost rent, maybe it wouldn't abate Joly's inevitable anger, maybe the boy wouldn't care, but he had to try. He ran and kept running, keeping an eye on the thief.

Suddenly the thief tripped. Bossuet hardly dared to believe it. He stayed down, and when Bossuet approached, he understood why. Feuilly was leaning against the wall, a knife in his hand. Always wary, always armed - old habits die hard. The thief cast him dirty glances, but didn't dare challenge him. Feuilly's name was stil notorious among the underbelly of Paris as someone not to be messed with.

"What. The. Hell?" Bossuet stammered, gasping for breath.

"I've just watched you chase him down the street. I figured you could do with a hand. Who is the bastard, then?"

"I don't know. He robbed a boy..."

"A boy you had your eye on."

"Maybe."

"Well, go save your damsel in distress, or whatever he is. Oh, Joly got your note about the lost wallet. He says he can't afford the rent on his own this month, so you have to think of something."

"Fuck. Well, maybe I can make a young man happy before I'm made homeless." He took the flute off the thief, and Feuilly crouched beside the man.

"I will find out who you are. And if I hear you've been stealing from defenceless little boys again, the law will be the least of your worries." Bossuet stepped back. He knew Feuilly had turned his back on a life of crime, but in moments like this, it was easy to see why he had been notorious. Now, he was a protector of the weak and innocent rather than preying on them. Nonetheless, it was scary.

Bossuet headed back to the greengrocer's. The shopkeeper's wife had apparently taken pity on the boy, and had him settled in the apartment above the shop, giving him a cup of tea to sip. Bossuet was let in, after a hurried explanation to the greengrocer, and he presented the boy with the flute.

"You got it back?" He jumped up and threw his arms around Bossuet. "Thank you so much! Let me take you for a drink to thank you properly."

Bossuet accepted, taking the boy to a nearby cafe. He finally introduced himself to the boy, and found out he was called Jehan.

"That's an unusual name."

"Well, I was christened Jean, for my father, but I thought that was boring. I decided to change it. But thank you so much for bringing my flute back. I have money, there must be some way I can reward you."

Bossuet hesitated. "Well... I'd accept a kiss." He wouldn't take the boy's money, he couldn't. Of course, asking for a kiss could land him in serious trouble. Jehan could look at him in absolute disgust. But instead, he smiled, and gave Bossuet a gentle kiss, before bidding him goodbye.

In the end, Bossuet borrowed money from Enjolras. Being both wealthy and frugal left him with a large surplus, and he lent it willingly, though most were too proud to ask. Ah, well. He'd pay him back eventually. He gave Joly the rent money, using the little he had left to buy a bottle of wine. Things would go back to normal, but that was fine. He'd had a kiss from a beautiful boy, and managed not to injure himself while chasing a thief - even if it was Feuilly who'd stopped him in the end.

He drank a glass, musing. A small gamin came in to the cafe. "'Scuse me, are you M. Bossuet?"

"Yes."

"M. Jehan requests that you meet him at the Luxembourg Gardens at eight o'clock, if it is convenient."

Well. Perhaps his luck was beginning to change.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Next pairing will be available ASAP.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Two chapters done in one day! Been a long time since I've done that. This pairing is Bahorel/Feuilly. I think it's fair to say that there's gonna be swearing, and this will be a modern AU. Also, mentions of drug use and possibility of OOCness.**

We should never have really crossed paths. We had nothing in common. He was younger than me, smarter than me. He shouldn't have ended up here in the gang infested Clubhouse, drinking, gambling, causing trouble. He could have made something of himself, but after a lifetime of watching those around him failing to escape poverty, he gave up.

I kept an eye on Samuel Feuilly, curious. He couldn't be more than twenty. He'd finished school a couple of years ago with good grades, but his teachers had encouraged him to persue an apprenticeship or something similar. They'd told him that a young man of his background 'would struggle to finance further education' - something he complained bitterly about when he was drunk. Otherwise, he was quiet and reserved, the youngest apprentice of Patron-Minette after Montparnasse had caught the eye of some rich housewife. He'd seen her advances, threatened to tell her husband and blackmailed a fortune from her. He was in Spain, last I'd heard of him.

I didn't get involved in gangs. Well, that's a lie, but I was never part of one. I drifted between them, a free agent, I borrowed money from them, did a few jobs when I was strapped for cash or slow at paying back a debt. Patron-Minette had never required my services, and in honesty, I was a little intimidated by them. I'd met most of them, but their enigmatic leader was nothing more than a whispered pseudonym with more blood on his hands than a butcher.

I drank with them, though, never talking about work. It was how Sam came to my attention. It was obvious that he didn't belong, right from the start. But as months wore on, he became better and better at what he was doing. He was a quick thief, and soon gained a reputation for it. After a year, he'd never been caught. After two, rumours began circulating that he could work as quickly as Claquesous. By the time he was twenty-three, whispers sprang up that he would replace Claquesous - apparently the shadowy leader was planning on retiring, taking a lifetime of ill-gotten gains and disappearing. That would never happen. The benefits of working quickly meant that Sam had never spilt blood, and I doubted that he could. We'd become closer over the three years. I'd be hard pressed to call us friends, with so much distrust in the Parisian backstreets, but if I saw him, we'd go out for a drink. And, while I was a passing acquaintance to him, I fell in love with him.

It was hard not to. I could see in him a goodness that the others didn't posess. He refused jobs that were based on pointless revenge, couldn't hurt a fly. He seemed so out of place that I couldn't help but focus on him, and with him always in my line of sight, I couldn't help but fall for him.

One afternoon, I was sat in the Clubhouse playing a bit of poker. I was doing OK, earning another few bottles of vodka. My phone rang, as it always did when I was trying to relax.I didn't check the number - it would be blocked. "Christophe Bahorel."

"Christophe, it's Reyard." Reyard was the head of Patron-Minette's biggest rival. I tried not to get involved too heavily, reluctant to take sides, but a job was a job, and Reyard paid over the odds.

"What's the matter?"

"That little rat of Patron-Minette's, the one who replaced Montparnasse, he slept with my son." Smart boy. Reyard's son was a gorgeous man of about twenty-five. And it meant that Sam was gay. But then I realised. Reyard was protective. Sam wouldn't be allowed to get away with this.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! Fucking castrate him for all I care, just make sure he keeps his filthy hands off my son. But for God's sake, don't kill him. I don't want to risk this spiralling out of control. A hundred thousand if you do it."

That was a lot of money. And refusing Reyard would put my life at risk. I didn't have to hurt him seriously, just enough that it was clear I'd done my job. Besides, there was no future for us anyway. He was just a young man I'd been admiring from afar. I had no choice, really.

It was two days before we were both at the Clubhouse at the same time. I followed him, far enough behind that he didn't hear me, glancing at him occasionally; I wasn't sure I believed people coud feel when they were being watched, but better safe than sorry. I picked up my pace, little by little. Finally, I was close enough to pull him into an alleyway between a cafe and some clothes shop, both closed. There was no-one around.

"What the fuck do you think you're..." I clamped a hand over Sam's mouth.

"Keep quiet. I will remove my hand. But if you try to say another word or scream for help, I will punch you in a way that will paralyse your vocal cords." I was pretty sure that I couldn't actually do that, but he nodded all the same. I removed my hand and he stayed silent, looking up at me with wide eyes, filled with betrayal. Well, that's what he gets for choosing this life.

I watched him for a moment, curious as to his reaction to this situation. It was a stupid thing to do. Sam was no great beauty, but he was far from hideous. And everything I tried to put to the back of my mind came rushing back in an almost overwhelming surge of emotion. And stupidly, unthinkingly, I leant forward and kissed him.

He started to struggle and panic. It wasn't an overreaction. I had, after all, dragged him into a deserted alleyway, told him not to scream and kissed him. "No, I'm sorry, don't panic. I won't hurt you, I swear."

I couldn't now. I knew that. "Just follow me, please. Trust me."

"Why should I?"

"Or you'll end up dead for sleeping with your rival's son. Come on." I took him to Gabriel Courfeyrac, an old friend of mine. He gave me a place to crash when I needed it, and was not stingy with his large amounts of inherited health. In return, I obtained certain illegal recreational drugs for him. We kept score of favours, and at that moment, I was one or two up.

"Chris! Good to see you. Why don't you introduce me to your charming friend. No, wait, I have another favour to ask you. I'm running a little low..." Gabriel constantly seemed like he was high on something. Maybe he was, or maybe I just had no patience for hyperactive people. He was the only one of the few users I knew who genuinely didn't seem to have a problem. It just seemed to be a form of recreation for him, rather than a need. But then again, I could have misjudged him again.

"Gabriel, I'll get you whatever you want, but I need a massive favour. This is Sam. He needs to disappear, or we're both in trouble."

"For how long?"

"Forever. He deserves better. Find him somewhere to live, a job, just get him out of this. I swear, I'll get you and your girlfriend whatever you want."

"Anything you want, mon ami. I'll be in touch."

"Make sure he isn't." I tilted my head at Sam. "Don't give him a chance to come back."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Sam asked almost tentatively, still a little scared and confused.

"No. Because if you're sensible, you'll agree. If you don't agree, you're clearly too messed up in the head to be making this decision."

"Christophe..."

"What?"

"You kissed me."

"Forget it. Forget me. If Reyard ever finds out I didn't hurt you, we're both dead."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you're better than us. Don't spout bullshit about how you're a criminal, the same as us, because you're not. I always saw it, I fell for you because of it, but this is a fresh start for you. Don't let anyone tell you you're less than them." I was just rambling now, and I realised a moment too late that I'd just confessed my feelings to him. Oh, what did it matter now? I left before he got his head round any of what I'd just said.

He'd be better off. It wasn't too late for him to go back to school, go on to do great things. After all, he had no criminal record to speak off. I told Reyard I'd scared him off, and he accepted it when there was no sign of Sam in days, weeks to follow. He didn't come back - clearly Gabriel had talked sense into him.

Gabriel was fortunate. He was the heir to a fortune, had the world handed to him on a silver platter, and was frankly a spoilt brat. But his girlfriend, Jeanne, adored him all the same. Well, he was almost a prince, he was guaranteed a happy ending. So was Sam, an innocent soul faced with adversity. I had to be satisfied with this, still caught in a web of criminals, but I'd saved him from this. Maybe that was enough.


End file.
